And whatever was the state of his marriage, which ended soon after the filming of Star Wars for reasons having nothing whatsoever to do with me, I don’t think of Harrison in any way as a “womanizer.” I think he was lonely in England. We were all lonely in an upbeat beginning-of-our-public-lives way. I think. At least I was, and I’m making an educated guess about the others. None of us had ever starred in a movie before, and Harrison was the only one of an age where he could muster some perspective. We were on the Island of Location, and Location is the land of permission, where you can behave in ways that you would never behave in the real world.
There was Harrison and there was me. Both three months away from home. On location where you were free to do what neither of you would do when surrounded by your all-too-loving family and all-too-observant friends. Where everything and everyone around you was interesting and new. Where you have all sorts of new people now focused on you and how you are feeling. But not in the usual quasi-claustrophobic way. These were people who didn’t want anything from you except that you have your lines memorized, your costume on, and your hair and makeup smooth and neat—especially your hair. Mine anyway, which tended to get unpinned and stray out of the confines it needed to stay in. Even though you were running around and shooting guns, your hair absolutely could not be in disarray. One had to look all neat and tidy while involved in the aerobic activity of saving the galaxy.
For most of us, home is an environment that discourages you from fooling around of any kind. Not that any of us were necessarily inclined to act out on adulterous impulses. I look back and see us all being playfully physical with one another, enjoying that familial comfort that developed amongst us. Us being me and Mark, though my focus on what happened between Mark and myself diminished once things began with Mr. Ford. On some days I would self-consciously draw back from contact with him, while on others I would have fun frolicking through brightly lit hallways, touching an arm, ducking down my bun-encased head, or grazing a powdered forehead to his smuggler’s jacket, leaning over to look at some allegedly unremembered lines, falling into him, my smaller self to his larger one in a fit of suppressed laughter between takes. What’s that saying I’ve said before? And I’ll keep saying it until things can finally get unsaid? “Location, location, location.”
Kissing me in the car was the last time that Harrison would be able to labor under the relaxing assumption that I was your average, everyday sexually experienced would-be actress. Someone accustomed to drunkenly jumping into the backs of cars and later falling into bed. A brief and amazingly casual encounter with said would-be actress, looking to add to her currently very short, but, like many other humans, over the ensuing years increasingly longer, line of exciting unclothed experiences with attractive men.
For me? A brief thrilling liaison I would eventually calmly walk away from, smiling and sophisticated. Anticipating the look on my friends’ faces when I could safely and cavalierly recount that amusing tryst I’d had on this cool little sci-fi film I’d done in England. I would laugh ironically as I told my fascinated, impressed pals about this man whom I’d been attracted to—how could I not be, he was so handsome. I was barely old enough to vote but I could easily enlist in the army, and I enlisted into the army of him. But we’d both known from the start this wouldn’t be a love affair, just two adult humans who hadn’t fallen in love with each other but appreciated each other. We were both adults, why shouldn’t we have had fun together! It never occurred to me to feel hurt because he hadn’t fallen in love with me. It was better this way! Friendly feelings and wonderful sex—what a nice change it had been from my relationship with Simon in drama school—so emotional, so innocent and new. No mess, no fuss. There was him and there was me; none of your needy “couple” shit, right? And I was now five foot six inches tall, had green eyes, was slender, lithe, and free of self-pity all the time. Right. Sure.
But you’ve got to feel bad for Harrison (well, you don’t have to, but if you can, for my sake, try). Not bad as in actually feeling a pang of anything emotional, gimme a break—no, just the sort of bad you might feel when someone is telling you a longish story about how they were talking about this surprise gift they bought for someone and then that someone overheard the conversation and the surprise was ruined. Oh no! How awful! What did you do? A ruined-surprise kind of awful, as opposed to, “Is that guy J.D. still living with you? Huh, because I was just at a drugstore and saw him picking up some medication and I overheard him tell the pharmacist it was for his leprosy.” I mean there’s bummer bad and then there’s the “Oh my fucking shit! No way, you’re kidding, right?” sort of bad. Blithely sympathetic bad or end-of-the-world bad. There, see? And all I was trying to do was say that I feel a little bad for Harrison at this point in my life (which he would loathe, so I take it back).
But when it was happening, I didn’t feel bad for him; I only felt bad, and more than a little, for myself. Time shifts and your pity enables you to turn what was once, decades ago, an ordinary sort of pain or hurt, complicated by embarrassing self-pity, into what is now only a humiliating tale that you can share with others because, after almost four decades, it’s all in the past and who gives a shit?
? ? ?
as I mentioned, a few times already, perhaps, en route between Elstree Studios and London, between Borehamwood and London, between surprise party and the next thing, Harrison and I spent quite a lot of time kissing. Later, Harrison informed me what a bad kisser I actually was then. Not that he knows (or anyone knows) what kind of a kisser I am—it’s a secret. The remark would probably sting a bit even six thousand years after the event. But I wonder about it now. I wish I could return to Harrison—maybe while he was recuperating from some airplane accident or being crushed by a flying piece of film set. He would be lying in bed, a leg or two elevated, his brow smooth with forced serenity.
“Why did you think I was such a bad kisser?” I would ask casually.
He would look out the window at the failing lights, chewing the inside of his cheek quietly. Not that you can do that loudly without help.
“Maybe,” I’d suddenly offer, “it was because I was so shocked to find myself on the receiving end of an offscreen kiss from some person I’d have an on-screen kiss with in a movie or two that my mouth just sort of hung open in amazement.”
“Oh, shut up,” he’d growl without looking at me. I always have him shut me up in our imagined interactions, probably because he always looks like he wants me to lose my grip on the English language.
Anyway, I suppose in part I’m telling this story now because I want all of you—and I do mean all—to know that I wasn’t always a somewhat-overweight woman without an upper lip to her name who can occasionally be found sleeping behind her face and always thinking in her mouth. I was once a relevant piece of ass who barely knew she existed while much of the rest of the moviegoing world saw me romping through the air in a metal bikini, awake as I needed to be in order to slay space slugs, being whoever I needed to be in the face of affective disorders and otherwise.
I can now share this with others because the story is part of history. It’s so long ago, it winds up being a real workout for my memory. This is an episode that’s only potentially interesting because its players became famous for the roles they were playing when they met.
Harrison is a decent—albeit complicated and frequently silent—guy. He’s always been decent to me, and as far as I know the only time he cheated on any one of his three wives was with me. And maybe he didn’t think that counted all that much because of how short I am.
So while there’s still time for Carrison to grow old together, that gateway is steadily closing. If we’re going to get back together we’re going to have to do it soon. And getting back together with someone you were never truly with is, to say the least, complicated. But absolutely worth the effort. Or not. I’ll probably regret writing this, but if you have the impulse to yell at me, please don’t. Periodically, I feel guilty enough on my own.
My hopes aren’t high, and neither, as it happens, am I.